When Neal Caffrey Got Smart
by AFictionalWriter
Summary: Neal Caffrey has a little episode of sleep-walking when he was a child.


Author's Note: This one-shot was inspired by a conversation I had with a freshie. It's actually based off of an experience my youngest brother had when he was about nine years old, minus the taxi, stealing from a purse and wanting to go to a museum (all of which you'll find out about soon), but the freshie gave me the idea of writing it.

Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar, nor am I making any profit off of this.

~oOoOoOo~

The young, dark-haired boy sat up in his bed slowly, swinging his feet over to the side and letting them rest there for a few moments. His window, which was conveniently placed above his desk next to his bed, showed a dark sky and a few pin-points of bright stars; it was still about one in the morning. Getting up and walking over to the wooden door across the room, his small feet barely made any noise, or at least not any loud enough to stir the house's other occupants.

Opening the door, the young boy dragged his feet down the hallway, past his parents' bedroom, and then down the stairs. The boy, merely ten years old, was as exceptionally observant and resourceful as any other child, possibly more so, although no one had discovered that yet. Unfortunately, he was also as observant and resourceful when he was sleep-walking.

The young boy wanted to go to the art museum just a few miles away from his house, but he couldn't walk there by himself and he knew his parents wouldn't be willing to drive him there on a cold fall morning - or on such short notice. So, he decided, he'd just take a taxi there; he was surely old enough to explore the art museum alone, and he'd be driven by an adult, too. A genius plan.

The problem was, though, he needed the money to pay the driver.

Walking, almost mechanically it seemed, his eyes barely open, to a small bookcase near the front door where his parents liked to leave their wallets and car keys, he grabbed his mother's purse. Her purse was a light tan with a white buckle on one side, and had been a gift from the boy's grandmother for her thirtieth birthday. He reached inside to grab a wallet, the same design as the purse, and, opening it up, grabbed a few crisp twenty dollar bills that his mother had gotten from the bank the day before.

He placed the bills in his pajama pants pocket. Without bothering to put on his shoes, for he did not think he would need shoes to walk around a museum, he stepped outside.

The air was freezing. The boy wrapped his arms around himself and stood on the doorstep a good ten minutes, rocking back and forth. He hadn't thought of getting his coat, a nice black one that he got for his birthday he absolutely loved. Nevertheless, he finally mustered enough courage to walk down the cold slabs to the dark street. He stood on the side of the road, his arms still wrapped around himself, until a yellow taxi, almost grey in the early morning, drove leisurely along the street. The boy stretched out a thin arm to signal the slow vehicle.

The passenger window slid down to reveal a burly old man with relatively no hair, and the hair he did possess was a dark grey, like that of steel pipes. He eyed the boy through thin-rimmed glasses, probably wondering why such a thin young boy was out on the street at this time in the morning.

"Going somewhere, sonny?" he asked presently, still eyeing the boy up and down.

The boy blinked. "Yes, sir. I want to go to the art museum, please." He made sure to be polite - he knew the old man had to have had a lot of fares to deal with today.

"By yourself?" the old man asked, his eyes now settled on the boy's face.

"Yes, sir."

The old man looked at him for a couple minutes, then heaved an exhausted sigh and said, "Alright, get on in the back there, boy."

The boy climbed into the backseat and buckled his seatbelt as the passenger window went back up. The old man looked over his shoulder to check and see if the boy was settled in then pulled out onto the street and began driving towards the art museum. The boy relaxed a little in the backseat of the car, with the warm air from the heater blowing onto him from the fan in the car door. His eyes, the part of them that were open, watched the dark shadows of stores and houses go by as the taxi got closer and closer to the museum.

When the taxi finally pulled up in front of the museum, the boy pressed his nose to the window to look at the tall stone building. The front was almost entirely made out of white marble, with large columns supporting the heavy ceiling. White marble steps that spanned the entire front of the museum led to large, heavy wooden doors, which were both closed at the moment. Not one person was in sight; the taxi was the only car to be seen for a few blocks.

The driver's seat crinkled as the old man looked over his shoulder again to look at the young boy, who was still looking at the museum, seemingly lost in his own world. He watched the young boy for a minute or two before speaking up.

"Hey, sonny," he said loudly, trying to catch the boy's attention. He was beginning to wonder if he had some sort of sickness or not, and wondered if he should bring him back to the street he picked him up on.

"Yeah," the boy replied dreamily, nose still pressed to the window. His hot breath was making the window steam up.

"Are ya getting out, or should I take you back home?"

The boy turned to look at the taxi driver, a confused expression on his young face. "What do you mean, 'take me home?' Why would you have to do that?"

"'Cause the museum's closed, boy. Don't ya see it? It's almost two in the morning."

The boy blinked again and stared at the taxi driver for a few quiet moments, attempting to process what the old man was saying.

"It's closed?" he repeated questioningly.

"Ya, sonny. It's closed," said the old man.

"Oh." The boy hesitated, wondering what he was supposed to do next. He couldn't understand why the museum would be closed at this time of day.

"Do ya want me to take ya home, sonny?" asked the driver.

The boy was quiet for a few more moments and finally replied, low enough that the old man had to strain to hear him, "Yeah, I'll go home."

The seat crinkled again as the old man turned around again and, shifting the car back into drive, drove back along the road to the dark street where he'd picked up the young boy. He'd look into his review mirror every so often to check on the boy, who had resumed staring blankly out the window. Light was starting to creep across the large city as it grew closer to six a.m. and the taxi turned onto the boy's street. When the taxi pulled up infront of his house, the boy unbuckled himself and began to reach into his pajama pocket for the stolen cash to pay the driver before the driver started waving his withered hands and said, "No, boy, keep the money. You don't need to pay me for a bust trip."

The boy gave a small smile, his eyes glazed over, saying, "Thanks a lot," before getting out and walking slowly up the concrete steps and to the front door. Without seeming to hesitate, the boy stepped over to a small potted plant next to the door and uncovered an extra key his parents had made incase they lost one of their own. As he unlocked the door and hid it back in depths of dirt and fertilizers, the old man, who had stayed parked out on the side of the street, drove off down the road.

The young boy closed the door quietly behind him and tiptoed up the stairs to his bedroom. Climbing into bed, he pulled his dark blue covers over him and fell asleep as light began to stream through the window onto his bedroom floor.

During breakfast that morning, the boy being up in time to get the first helping of scrambled eggs, corn-beef hash and a tall, cold glass of orange juice, his mother, smiling as she watched her only child eat his breakfast hungrily, walked over to her purse to check and see if she had enough cash to take him to the art museum down the street for the day.

"Neal!" she called from the front hallway. "Do you know where my money has gone?"

This is the day when Neal Caffrey got smart.


End file.
